My Dear Rebecca,
Whenever I write your name, your beautiful face comes to mind. How I love to plant kisses there. Poets write about smiling eyes but yours are the only ones I have seen that really do and for me to boot. Did the cosmos come up this spring? I smile every time I remember your little-girl excitement when you placed the tiny seeds, one by one, in the front yard flower bed.
It is my pleasure to remember seasons spent with you, to have actual memories. They are a future promise a lot of the guys here don’t have. This awful place offers its season of war and nothing else. We, as you know, can’t speak of where we are, as if we knew. I have so much more than others here, just to imagine you wearing that flowery spring dress will get me through a day. The doctor is here so I have to leave off for now. I’ll be right back.
Hey Becca,
I’m back but it didn’t go so well. I forgot to mention yesterday that I’m in a field hospital, finally a few miles off the front line. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be okay. They can’t do much for my wound here but are arranging for a bird (helicopter) to come get me and a couple other guys.
While I wait I’m just gonna write to you for a while. I’m gonna close my eyes and, once your face is clear to me, I’ll have myself a nap. The worst shock in this hospital is upon waking. You are so vivid in my dreams. I feel like I have been kidnapped and dragged into some terrible nightmare place when I wake up.
I don’t think I could bear these long nights and dreary days if I didn’t have you at home waiting for me. The enemy crawls up on us at night. A buddy and I were talking about that awhile back. He thought it would make a lot more sense to fight on home ground. Remember those football games when we were kids. No one could catch me with Becca in the stands cheering me on. But this is no game here Darlin’. I hope our battles are never fought at home.
Home is where you and the cosmos are. I can see you planting tulip bulbs, a sprinkle of cosmos seeds here and there. Maybe you can send me a picture, not that you didn’t describe it well enough. Did I tell you I love you before I left? I’m sure I must have but can’t remember and that just about drives me crazy. I love you, Rebecca. There, that helps a little.
I gotta go for now, Sweetheart. We’re on lights out tonight. A recon showed signs of a possible offensive.
Hi Becca,
I can’t believe I went to sleep so fast last night. They have me on morphine every three hours. An hour or so after the shot I get kinda dreamy. I’ll have to ask the doc if maybe they put something in my drip bag to help me sleep. Last night I dreamt about our dreams, mine and yours. You know, the one where we’re both writers, me in my cave and you out there with your flowers.
Remember when I said we were too young, hadn’t lived enough to be real writers? Well, I have now. I could write about what I’ve learned in this war for the rest of my life and still not have it told. Never mind the cave idea though. I swear, I’ll sit by your side in the wonderful sunshine and write until my fingers are sore. So, you buy another lawn chair and I’ll bring the iced tea. Oops! Gotta go, Honey. Got a little infection here and they’re gonna run me through a battery of tests.
Sweet Becca,
I overheard the medic who treated me on the field talking to my doctor. I have to say too that you were right about feeling what is said, it being something entirely different than the words. I won’t be coming home. My life has become that ‘whisper and a prayer’ thing. I do love you so and want you to know you’re the last and only thing on my mind. You are my courage.
When they send that person to the house to tell you about me, you’re gonna hear what a brave soldier I was, the courage I showed in hand-to-hand combat. Funny thing is, it’s almost the truth, like all the other almosts that go with war. When they snuck up on us that morning, I actually put a bullet into another human being. I swear Rebecca, time froze for a moment. Both our weapons jammed after I shot him.
He came screaming toward me. I stood up to meet his charge, scared half out of my wits. No doubt though, I could overcome a wounded man in hand-to-hand combat. A hummingbird, Becca... I swear I never saw anything like that in my life. It hung between us in the air, sweet on the blade of my bayonet. Bored out of my brain earlier in the day, I made a wreath of wildflowers and laced them together there.
Forgive me, my sweet, sweet, girl. Each flower bore your name. Our eyes met on the fast fluttering wings of that tiny bird. The man would have stopped if he could have. Neither of us would have chosen to fight and die in Rebecca’s garden but it is done. His bayonet ran me through and he was already dead.
We never know how much our letters will be censored. I have tried to follow the rules here. These are my last wishes. Rebecca, you spread my ashes amongst the cosmos. You have to be strong. Get that second chair and find yourself a good young man to sit there with you. Bury my ashes in Rebecca’s Garden.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
Rebecca’s Garden was published by Voices in Wartime 2005
Whenever I write your name, your beautiful face comes to mind. How I love to plant kisses there. Poets write about smiling eyes but yours are the only ones I have seen that really do and for me to boot. Did the cosmos come up this spring? I smile every time I remember your little-girl excitement when you placed the tiny seeds, one by one, in the front yard flower bed.
It is my pleasure to remember seasons spent with you, to have actual memories. They are a future promise a lot of the guys here don’t have. This awful place offers its season of war and nothing else. We, as you know, can’t speak of where we are, as if we knew. I have so much more than others here, just to imagine you wearing that flowery spring dress will get me through a day. The doctor is here so I have to leave off for now. I’ll be right back.
Hey Becca,
I’m back but it didn’t go so well. I forgot to mention yesterday that I’m in a field hospital, finally a few miles off the front line. I don’t want you to worry about me. I’ll be okay. They can’t do much for my wound here but are arranging for a bird (helicopter) to come get me and a couple other guys.
While I wait I’m just gonna write to you for a while. I’m gonna close my eyes and, once your face is clear to me, I’ll have myself a nap. The worst shock in this hospital is upon waking. You are so vivid in my dreams. I feel like I have been kidnapped and dragged into some terrible nightmare place when I wake up.
I don’t think I could bear these long nights and dreary days if I didn’t have you at home waiting for me. The enemy crawls up on us at night. A buddy and I were talking about that awhile back. He thought it would make a lot more sense to fight on home ground. Remember those football games when we were kids. No one could catch me with Becca in the stands cheering me on. But this is no game here Darlin’. I hope our battles are never fought at home.
Home is where you and the cosmos are. I can see you planting tulip bulbs, a sprinkle of cosmos seeds here and there. Maybe you can send me a picture, not that you didn’t describe it well enough. Did I tell you I love you before I left? I’m sure I must have but can’t remember and that just about drives me crazy. I love you, Rebecca. There, that helps a little.
I gotta go for now, Sweetheart. We’re on lights out tonight. A recon showed signs of a possible offensive.
Hi Becca,
I can’t believe I went to sleep so fast last night. They have me on morphine every three hours. An hour or so after the shot I get kinda dreamy. I’ll have to ask the doc if maybe they put something in my drip bag to help me sleep. Last night I dreamt about our dreams, mine and yours. You know, the one where we’re both writers, me in my cave and you out there with your flowers.
Remember when I said we were too young, hadn’t lived enough to be real writers? Well, I have now. I could write about what I’ve learned in this war for the rest of my life and still not have it told. Never mind the cave idea though. I swear, I’ll sit by your side in the wonderful sunshine and write until my fingers are sore. So, you buy another lawn chair and I’ll bring the iced tea. Oops! Gotta go, Honey. Got a little infection here and they’re gonna run me through a battery of tests.
Sweet Becca,
I overheard the medic who treated me on the field talking to my doctor. I have to say too that you were right about feeling what is said, it being something entirely different than the words. I won’t be coming home. My life has become that ‘whisper and a prayer’ thing. I do love you so and want you to know you’re the last and only thing on my mind. You are my courage.
When they send that person to the house to tell you about me, you’re gonna hear what a brave soldier I was, the courage I showed in hand-to-hand combat. Funny thing is, it’s almost the truth, like all the other almosts that go with war. When they snuck up on us that morning, I actually put a bullet into another human being. I swear Rebecca, time froze for a moment. Both our weapons jammed after I shot him.
He came screaming toward me. I stood up to meet his charge, scared half out of my wits. No doubt though, I could overcome a wounded man in hand-to-hand combat. A hummingbird, Becca... I swear I never saw anything like that in my life. It hung between us in the air, sweet on the blade of my bayonet. Bored out of my brain earlier in the day, I made a wreath of wildflowers and laced them together there.
Forgive me, my sweet, sweet, girl. Each flower bore your name. Our eyes met on the fast fluttering wings of that tiny bird. The man would have stopped if he could have. Neither of us would have chosen to fight and die in Rebecca’s garden but it is done. His bayonet ran me through and he was already dead.
We never know how much our letters will be censored. I have tried to follow the rules here. These are my last wishes. Rebecca, you spread my ashes amongst the cosmos. You have to be strong. Get that second chair and find yourself a good young man to sit there with you. Bury my ashes in Rebecca’s Garden.
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
Rebecca’s Garden was published by Voices in Wartime 2005
Death Chords on the Dark Guitar
On the mourning of my life
I come awake
I see everything has changed
Through the light of crystal eyes
I make a cave
until I am rearranged
The watchers all are watching,
their vacant eyes
turn my naked skin to clay
I see them through the mist,
a warning that I
must somehow hide away
There are thirteen candles
a tiny pool of tears
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
I come awake
I see everything has changed
Through the light of crystal eyes
I make a cave
until I am rearranged
The watchers all are watching,
their vacant eyes
turn my naked skin to clay
I see them through the mist,
a warning that I
must somehow hide away
There are thirteen candles
a tiny pool of tears
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
Who is the faceless woman,
Oh with her dance,
she makes my poor heart afraid
as she moves across my garden,
through the ashes
of fires I have made
If beauty is her mystery
and the faces,
broken windows from my past
may come mocking what I am,
what I have been
and the lady makes her danse
There are thirteen flashes
into tiny pools of fear
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
Oh with her dance,
she makes my poor heart afraid
as she moves across my garden,
through the ashes
of fires I have made
If beauty is her mystery
and the faces,
broken windows from my past
may come mocking what I am,
what I have been
and the lady makes her danse
There are thirteen flashes
into tiny pools of fear
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
I see the fingers moving
and thunder
marks the rhythm of my name
as I dig a hole for hiding,
pull my head down
I curse the mourning rain
Thus I built a pyre
until the lightning
made the players’ silhouette
As their bones struck the sinew,
the lady danced
into a falling pirouette
There are thirteen voices
in the flames of the choir
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
and thunder
marks the rhythm of my name
as I dig a hole for hiding,
pull my head down
I curse the mourning rain
Thus I built a pyre
until the lightning
made the players’ silhouette
As their bones struck the sinew,
the lady danced
into a falling pirouette
There are thirteen voices
in the flames of the choir
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
In the waking of my life,
I come to mourn
I see everything’s the same
The beast is in the garden
and he charges
until the walls fall down again
When I hear a child laughing,
is it the gods
playing music they have made
the ashes and the golden
left by the boy
where the dancing lady laid
There are thirteen lakes of fire,
piles of rainbows burned to ashes
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
His fingers are bleeding,
fire consumes his mourning
His bloody sword is singing
death dirges forming
Through the blood and fire,
smiling on his faces
Flying high and higher,
through jet streams, Gods, and traces
And to the Earth again,
stone heart caged and bound
Bleeding for the when,
the instant of the sound
She is dancing in his praying,
they go falling far and far
his bleeding fingers playing
death chords on the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
http:--wordwulf.com/songs
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2017 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©
I come to mourn
I see everything’s the same
The beast is in the garden
and he charges
until the walls fall down again
When I hear a child laughing,
is it the gods
playing music they have made
the ashes and the golden
left by the boy
where the dancing lady laid
There are thirteen lakes of fire,
piles of rainbows burned to ashes
Are they the death chords
of the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
His fingers are bleeding,
fire consumes his mourning
His bloody sword is singing
death dirges forming
Through the blood and fire,
smiling on his faces
Flying high and higher,
through jet streams, Gods, and traces
And to the Earth again,
stone heart caged and bound
Bleeding for the when,
the instant of the sound
She is dancing in his praying,
they go falling far and far
his bleeding fingers playing
death chords on the dark guitar
They’re playing death chords
on the dark guitar
http:--wordwulf.com/songs
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2017 artwork, music and words
conceived by and property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2017 ©
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